Honestly, Gabriell didn't care about the war, despite the fact that he'd been involved with the military from a young age. At sixteen he left home to join the army, practically still a child when a gun was shoved into his willing hands. The first war he'd been in, at seventeen, was still the war he was fighting in at thirty-two. He'd forgotten what it was about, as he was sure all three sides had, but he vaguely remembered it being about a land dispute or perhaps some sort of international disagreement. Whatever it was, it had been going on for a helluva long time and many people had lost their lives for a fight he was sure was just out of spite, now. Having been so experienced in the ways of war, he'd been personally chosen by his commander to spy on one of the three sides. There was Ireland, his native land, America, where the battle was currently being held, and Germany, who seemed a little too willing to participate in another war. The war had so far ravaged most of the Eastern United States, which had been reduced to a charred wasteland over the years. His camp, one of the many the Americans had, was set in what used to be Georgia. The Americans, with the advantage of fighting on native land, had a military area from what used to be Florida to Missouri, which included Mississippi, South Carolina, Arkansas, Louisiana, Alabama, Kentucky, and parts of North Carolina. They also had massive support from the rest of the country, though there were those who opposed the war in it's entirety, mostly in the North-West. The Irish had taken land from Maine to Pennsylvania, including all of the land from the states that used to be there. Germany was left with West Virginia, Virginia, Parts of North Carolina, and Ohio. He'd been sent from Pennsylvania to enlist with the Americans in Georgia, under the guise of an American ex-military man named Gabriell Hutchenns. His real name, Danby Connolly, was the only thing that reminded him of who he really was, what he was really doing, and why he was doing it. He was currently crouched over a pile of loose papers, letters and such, strewn about his bed and lap. They were letters from, as he had told those who took interest when he received his mail, his "sweetheart Mary-Anne". Though they looked like traditional love letters filled with honey words and sweet perfumey promises, they were actually coded messages from the Irish front, which he responded to with even more mushy, coded words. He'd been spying on the Americans for several years, and had had to kill many of his own Irish men. But his efforts were not wasted, as the secrets he shared saved many more. He lifted dull green eyes from the letter he was holding to look at the wavering flaps at the entrance of the tent, shielding him from the noise and bustle outside. The new recruits had been shipped in today and he had been informed that he would once again be living with someone, as his last tent-mate had been killed. He was a nice man, an old butcher with kind eyes, and it had been a shame to see him killed like he was -- shot in the heart and left to rot in the mud. They had left him on the field to be eaten by the crows, something Gabriell still thought about from time to time. He tapped the pencil he was holding on his chin, tiredly wondering what his new roomie would be like. He hoped they wouldn't talk to much. After Alfred, the old butcher, had died, he had refrained from becoming close with anyone else. He had been weak and connected with the old man, and in the end he was only hurt. He shook the thought from his mind once again and hurriedly scribbled across the paper, hoping to block out the sad thoughts with his writing.

Dellix, just being 17, Had been sent out into the War. He was Drafted, SO he had no choice. It was A Pain to say goodbye to hi family and such. He was told he was being sent to America into the mid-east area. He didn't know much about the country, nor that the war was even there, But he didn't care, as long as he fought for his homeland. Dellix has heard that already many men had been killed and been left behind, this making him paranoid since he was "weak" or "powerless". But He had his hopes up, and if he died, he would've died with Honor. Other news he heard was that he was Being sent to a camp in a place called "Georgia" or whatever the state was called due two a dying member.

Gabe was wearing a simple black long-sleeved knitted sweater and loose black trous, standard military wear for men when they weren't actually fighting. His feet were covered by a couple of thick black socks. Winter was soon approaching and that afternoon was uncharacteristically cold for a Southern day, but he didn't complain. 'I can still remember the way your hair smelled before I was sent away -- tulips, roses, honeysuckle. Red curls, tightly wound. When I close my eyes I see your...' He paused for a moment, tapping the end of the dull pencil he was holding against his stubble-covered chin. 'hazel eyes.' That was code for Gama-Sync Cannons. That was fairly important, as if the Irish knew that the Americans had GSCs, they could get their own or even weapons made specifically to disarm them. He quickly signed it, folding the thick paper a few times and sticking it into an empty envelope across from him, licking it to keep it closed and hurriedly scribbling the fake address on the front. A stamp or two from a roll he had bought at the camp supply store made it ready to be shipped, and he smiled an odd smile as he shoved it into the knapsack beside him. He didn't smile often, as there weren't many reasons to do so nowadays, so he always looked quite odd when he did. He took everything else and put it into the bag -- old letters, torn envelopes, the remaining stamps on the roll, and a few broken pencils -- tying it securely at the top and setting it on the floor at the end of the bed. He would get it sent as soon as possible, which was usually when one of the mail carriers came around to the tents in the morning and took all outgoing mail. He now had time to relax, which he usually spent sleeping or walking around the camp. He chose the latter. He slipped his large feet into the polished black leather boots on the floor in front of him, lacing them up securely and standing from his bed. Taking a thick green-ish jacket from the bedpost he lazily slipped it on and exited the small room quietly. He spared a glance back at the tent, looking back briefly to look at the large black 17 on the front, and walked around the side to the back. Not that he didn't want to be there when his new tent-mate arrived, but...No, he just didn't want to be there when he arrived. Not that Gabriell hated people, but he had a particular dislike for Americans, despite being around them for so long. He hid it well, though. No use bringing any suspicion upon his own head. "Terrance," he nodded to the other soldier who passed, who responded with "Gabe," and a cloud of smoke from the cigarette he was smoking. Gabe's voice was gravelly, tired. He'd had to take on an American accent before becoming a spy, words feeling awkward in his mouth a first, but over the years it was as easy to speak in as if he had been born with it. They had practically beat the Irish brogue out of him in training, but luckily he had started to sound convincing after a few weeks. His accent was muddled, even after so many years, but no one listening could decipher that he had grown up in Dublin and not Carson City, as he had told those who asked. If anyone really payed attention, they would probably think that he was from the North or perhaps the North-East.